


The Wolves, Act I

by FloodFeSTeR



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Assassination, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Conflict of Interests, Confusion, Evil, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Gambling, Graphic Description, Gun Violence, Heartache, Identity Issues, Internal Conflict, Knives, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Identity, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spies & Secret Agents, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tragic Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9468803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloodFeSTeR/pseuds/FloodFeSTeR
Summary: " I am not no one," her lip trembled, red smeared down her chin, dress tattered as they left her to ruin in the sand; they could see her true form. " I am not. . .no one. . ."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ Please Read Note (s) At The End Of The Chapter. ]
> 
> [ Thank You. ]
> 
> [ You May Now Proceed ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ Its A Story Summary, Because What's Already There, Looks Good Enough On Its Own ]
> 
> Maggie wakes up with pieces of her memory stolen by a bullet.
> 
> But she remembers a face, she remembers a suit, she remembers a delivery she cannot leave unfinished.
> 
> And yet, Maggie is host to memories she questions. 
> 
> Were they real? Who belongs to the faceless bodies? Who was she, really? Is it a program, what is that screeching in her ear, just what did that bullet do to her?

 

_None who go into the_

_Land of revenge and reason_

_Emerge with shoulders_

_Light of sin ._

_L. L. Tyrrell._

* * *

 

Yes, this starts at the beginning.

The beginning where I was dug from the ground, fully in tact, but with fresh scars to match those I received years ago.

I was dug from the ground by a mechanical man, a primitive one. One with a mans face on a flickering screen and a high pitched Southern-drawl that has been drilled into my head for a long while now.

Yes, this starts at the beginning.

The beginning where I met a town without a past, grown from the ashes of a world long passed.

The dust and grime had settled into the wood, the planks dried on the ground, brittle from the desert, hard from the rains. It stunk of spit and dynamite, rot and ruin, forgotten by so many but with the friendliest faces you would ever meet.

Yes, this starts at the beginning.

The beginning where I blinked with new eyes, moved with no strings, from an old bed that smelt like piss and antiseptic.

The room is dark, the curtains are drawn, and a thick accent hums from the radio at the foot of the bed but I never focused on it because my heart had already been hammering in my chest because I hadn't known where I was.

Yes, this starts at the beginning.

A beginning so many find boring, tedious, done too many times because a hero's tale has to be told over and over again, but it gets new strings, it gets new patches to missing detail, the hero is painted in so many ways where, in the end, you wonder if they were really the hero all along.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Please Read Note (s) At The End Of The Chapter. ]
> 
> [ Thank You ] 
> 
> [ You May Now Proceed. ]

When I leave Goodsprings - that's the name of the smiley town, in the middle of the desert - its nightfall.

I don't know the time, I don't know the day, but I could look on that old device the doctor gave me. Its in a bag he said was mine, but that must be one of the handful of memories I do not possess any longer because I have no recollection of this bag ever being in my possession, or the weapons and bits inside. I do not like loud guns, and none inside have a silencer of any sort; where are my blades, my fist? I like to cut things, punch things, but you could never tell looking at my slapped-together arsenal.

The armor is not mine either, my armor is missing; this is primitive as well, like the man that pulls me from the Earth. It is a Vault suit, 1-something, the other numbers torn away by time.

I do not know where to go, I know where Vegas is, I know that's where I should go, a big obvious beacon, but an old thirst gnaws at me. It is a beast of a thirst, hungry, nipping at my ankles, ready to move, drag me down a path I was not. . .unfamiliar with.

Revenge.

I absolutely _ache_ for revenge.

The man, Benny, is somewhere down the more clear, but long, path to my right, Deathclaws to my left. But those are easy, just add water and darkness and I can make my way around them, but revenge sings through my punished mind and I turn right.

My memory is not as damaged as expected, especially by the good doctor, but my mind was made well and I know its endurance. Nevertheless, the date is fuzzy, and I cannot remember my true objective here in the desert, but I know there is a Chip, and I know I am in trouble.

Big trouble.

* * *

Primm.

_The Other New Vegas._

I blink at the words in my mind, confused as to whose voice that is, but it sounds like static and I shake it off. NCR have a small camp across a bridge that has been slapped down of metal siding and rickety wood; smoke blooms against the early-morning sky-line.

A man stops me halfway into the camp, tells me the road ahead is dangerous.

"I can handle myself," my voice is monotone, I do believe my shock at being alive is still present.

The soldier shrugs, a cigarette burning to the filter in his right hand; uncaring. "Suit yourself."

_A pitiful fight. . ._

But I don't really care, he would not have stopped me anyway. I planned on following this path before me, and no one would stop me until I had my claws deep into Benny's lapels.

There is a soldier on the bridge, and he just watches me walk past him, which is exactly what I expected. They are just here to watch, not fight, not yet, not until the horn above their heads is blown. And no one had the plans on doing so any time soon. Five soldiers - two in the main tent, one lingering around a cooking pot, the one on the bridge and the one that didn't stop me - is not enough to take on the handful of men I see patrolling the town.

"Great," I murmured, crouched down behind a burnt-out Corvega car. "Troublesome. . ."

I check the clip to the 9mm in my hand, eyeing the seven rounds with apprehension; If I was as good as I wanted to be, and did not take in the logics of the situation, I could easily get away with this. They would have to share a bullet or two, but watching them twitch around the concrete, I know they are high as a kite a piece and junkies were not to be trusted.

I sighed and rocked back on my heels, chewing softly on the inside of my cheek. I could kill the two in front of the Vikki & Vance, the other vandals are on top of the old coaster and one is at the other end of the lot smoking a cigarette, too far. The others, the towns folk, are inside that casino, the Deputy is apparently inside the Bison motel, and he is not my main priority. There is a Mojave Express, not the one that I visited to get my job, but they will still have me on record, just like they do with every other Courier that comes through. If the person in charge is still alive, he will be in there, and I can see how Benny found me; they log everyone that asks or bullies a name from them.

I shrug softly and stand, jumping onto the sidewalk, staying out of their view for as long as possible. When I do round the building, they take pause at my smile, then start scrambling when they see my gun. It takes three shots, two for the one where his bullet strip across the chest half-saves him the first time, and one for the man barely wearing shorts let alone a shirt. The one smoking a cigarette in the distance doesn't even flinch, the men on the railings don't do a damn thing, because they're busy watching the wrong angles.

_Morons._

I adjust the clip, slide it into the holster on my thigh, and ease into the double doors of the casino. Its loud inside, whether the town is shut down or not, slot machines still running, the radio leaking through the speakers above my head. People are shaken but drinking, loud, trying to forget the hostage situation they're stuck in.

My head aches and I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, leaning by my arm onto the post beside the doors. Spots crackle at the edge of my vision, it glitches, like a broken computer screen, and when I shake my head, I hear a faint screeching sound in my ears.

"What the. . ." I murmured, looking around, seeing a weathered old mans face approaching me.

"Ya alrigh' there miss," the man questioned, hand hovering over my shoulder, hesitant.

I waved it away without touching, standing straight but wavering for a moment. "I'm okay," I murmured, looking around; no, I couldn't say anything about the screeching. "I uh. . .the guys outside, I killed the ones at the door. Why don't we wiggle you all out of here," I suggested.

He hesitates, actually fucking hesitates, and I want to ask why. Why do you want to stay, why would you hesitate over such a thing? But I don't, I just watch him shake his head, scratch at the back of it, hand on his hip; he looks more concerned for me than I am for them. And though my demeanor is placid, though I don't show more enthusiasm, I truly am concerned for these people.

And it is odd.

"Afraid we can't do that," the man says with slight sorrow in his tone. "See, some of us are still scattered in the town, we won't leave em behind."

I sighed, head pounding, nauseous, but I looked around the dimly lit room, saw the. . .it was barely a handful of people lingering in this place.

_Oh. . ._

"Maggie," I murmured, pushing off of the post, trying to ignore the pain.

"Johnson Nash," he introduced himself proudly. "I run the local Mojave Express, and I run our general store as well. Still have the funds in the back of th' casino, and the supplies, if ya interested."

"Only interested in the Mojave Express part," I looked over at him. "I'm a courier, my package was stolen. I was wondering if anyone had cone through asking about me or the package."

_It was so important. . ._

"Well," Johnson pulled scuffed glasses from the pocket on the front of his overall's, settling them nicely on his broad nose. "Ya have the slip?"

I nodded and reached into my waist bag, pulling out the slip to hand it to him. One of the creases tore as he unfolded it, the edges so worn, paper so soft, I had been worrying that piece of paper for so long, so many nights spent holding it like it were made of gold.

He hummed as he looked it over, and I sat on the stool in front of one of the slot machines, trying to block out the obnoxious music and the Ching! of the machines that only held caps and not money like pre-war. I bet this place was truly amazing, I bet it held grand parties and happy smiles, thick cigar smoke and classy attire. . .

"Yeah," Johnson snapped his fingers. "Yeah, I remember a fella in a daisy suit," he scratched at the back of his head. "Odd delivery too, another courier came in askin bout it too. . ." My skin prickled for some reason. "Saw your name, got mad."

"He say anything?" _even tone, stare at the sparking Protectron, don't move too much._

"Nah, he just up an' left - daisy suit didn't, had some Kahns with 'im too. Bad bunch."

My head snapped up at that, fury lit in my eyes judging by the way Johnson's widened. That's what I needed, him and his Kahns - the ones that buried me beneath six feet of cold soil. They would get theirs too, I wouldn't let anyone get away with trying to kill me.

"Thank you," I pushed up against the slot machine behind me, staggering into his arms - when had he moved to catch me? "No don't touch me!"

My skin prickled where he touched, all eyes turning to me when I threw myself back against the slot machines. Pieces stabbed at my back, chairs tangled beneath my feet, people looked more concerned than scared about the stranger freaking out over being touched.

_Still too fresh!_

"Miss," Johnson's hand hovered around my shoulder, definitely afraid to touch me now. "Miss, you alright?"

"N-No," I stuttered, gripping my head with one hand, eyes squeezed tight. "I'm not - my head, its fucking pounding - I need somewhere dark. Please."

_Have to keep it together, those people, they're scared enough, they see somethin crazy and bam! you're head is gone._

They led me to a room in the far back, music turned off, only one lamp on a desk to my left. I shut and locked the double doors, dropped my bag beside the couch in the opposite corner of the desk. I fell onto it, massaging the bridge of my nose, nostrils crinkled at the smell of shattered drywall and mold. There was another room, but rubble had slid down from a collapse in the ceiling, and it brought with it smells I had forgot about.

I looked around, left arm and leg hanging off of the couch, and found the supplies Johnson was talking about. Were I someone else, a past, I would steal from this supply. Take just enough to sustain me, not enough to be suspicious.

But my head hurt.

And they could have easily killed me, seeing someone freak out like that, could have just obliterated me with those rifles and pistols, but they let me into the room with their weapons, food, ammunition, without protest.

_So good. . ._

I huffed out air from my nose, looking back up at the ceiling, trying to remember Benny's clear face. I wanted it memorized, I didn't want to forget my goal, didn't want to grow soft, not again, never again, not like I had been when he clubbed me like a barbarian.

He was a monster.

He deserved all I craved to give him.

I closed my eyes, trying to calm the pounding in my head by sheer will alone, but thinking was making my brain hurt. I didn't know the source, I just wanted it to leave me alone; _stop nagging me, I have things to do. . ._

* * *

I jumped when there was a heavy knock on the door, blinking to cure the blurs from the edges of my vision. I looked around the dark room, confused and still. . .was I even awake? Then again, when had I fallen asleep?

I pushed myself off of the couch, trying to straighten myself before I made it to the door. "Yeah," I questioned.

A deep chuckle came from the other side. "Ma'am, need ta get into my supplies."

"Oh, sorry," I grabbed my bag up, twisting the lock and opening the door. "I fell asleep, I apologize."

Johnson waved a hand. "That's fine, you looked rough earlier. Have somethin to do with that bandage on your head?"

I reached up, fingers rubbing over the bandage. I had almost forgotten that I was marred by my escape from death, and that it needed to be changed.

"Is there a doctor here," I questioned, shouldering my bag.

Johnson shook his head. " 'fraid not, Quinton was killed by those thugs when they came into town."

I groaned. "Dammit," I shook my head, instantly regretting the force I had done so at; I groaned and gripped my head with both hands. "Ow, ow, ow!"

Couldn't catch a break, and now my head was pounding again, but I couldn't go lay back down, I just couldn't. I feared I wouldn't get off that couch again, and I had things to do.

I moaned in pain beneath my breath. "I need to get to a doctor," I murmured, looking up at Johnson. "I have to, this is killing me."

"What exactly happened to ya? Causin an awful lot of pain."

"The man in the daisy suit," I murmured. "He shot me, thought he killed me, but I don't die easy," I swallowed bile bubbling in the back of my throat. "I'll be back, I swear, and I'll get all of you out of here - I just have to get to the NCR outpost first. I need a proper doctor, some stims, Med-X. . ."

Johnson smiled. "Do what you need to, we ain't goin anywhere."

"I'm coming back," I promised.

Johnson chuckled again. "Alright, alright, then hurry back here stranger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this wasn't the most exciting chapter, but it had to be done. I'm not going step-by-step on the story missions, so no one sweat that. Also just. . .I know I said this story was open to whatever reviews you left behind, but I beg, do not make broad assumptions of the plot and character so early in the story.
> 
> [ Thank You ]
> 
> [ Follow Me On Twitter: LikePicklez / I Am Under My Pin ( FloodFeSTeR) Just As I am On Fanfiction.net ]

**Author's Note:**

> Face claim is Natasha Romanoff, just to let everyone know.
> 
> This story will be long, this story does not lack detail, this story is also open to suggestions, praise and criticism. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.
> 
> [ Follow Me On Twitter: @ LikePicklez ]


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